A night bus slowly stopped in front of a Jewish community in Gorky City, with only three or two passengers on the bus. A frustrated elderly man walked out of the car dejectedly. The man was named Xie Miao Sharapov, who was also a Jew. Less than a month ago, Sharapov was the personal butler of Nikola Popov, one of the famous gang leaders in Gorky City. Under the care of Mr. Popov, Sharapov lived a pretty good life. However, since Mr. Popov was killed, Sharapov completely lost the source of his life, and Sharapov was usually used to it and had no savings. So now he can only make a living by making some money by taking care of patients in the hospital every day.

Sharapov walked heavily in the dim stairwell with his own handbag. The food in the handbag was his dinner today and the only meal of the day. Sharapov was not yet used to this change from having no worries about food and clothing to unsustainable meals, but people always have to survive. Whether it is a happy life or a painful life, God will not pay attention to you until the end of his life.

People always have all kinds of problems when they get older. What they have left for Sharapov with decades of stewardship is severe lumbar muscle strain and varicose veins on their legs. Now they are starting to feel uncomfortable when climbing stairs. Sharapov takes out the key from his pocket, and his hands are trembling involuntarily, which is the discomfort caused by overworked muscles. After closing the door, Sharapov pours himself a cup of warm water with the last strength, and then he collapses on the sofa, drinking warm water while eating the dry and hard Dareba in his handbag. Sharapov has never been married or has children, and as he grows older, his relatives and friends have passed away one after another. People are really lonely as they grow older.

Just as Sharapov was eating the unpalatable Reba and was saddened by his confused life, a brief and powerful knock on the door interrupted Sharapov's thoughts. Just when Sharapov wondered if he had heard it wrong, the knock sounded again. Sharapov supported his tired body from the sofa with both hands, walked to the door with a stuttering step, and asked in a hoarse voice: "Who?" while opening his door.

A strange man in his 40s stood by the door. The man had brown hair and pale face. What attracted the most was his eyes as sharp as an eagle. Although his figure and appearance were not eye-catching, his sharp eyes seemed to point straight to the hearts. Sharapov looked at him for a long time. He was not sure whether he knew the man, so he asked: "Sir, who are you looking for?"

"Mr. Sharapov, don't you know me anymore? My uncle is Nikola Popov. I have lived with him for a while, and I am still the one you take care of me." The man said kindly.

"Yes, I remembered that you were the young master who moved from Harbin, faraway China to join Mr. Popov, and his name was Ya... Ya..." Sharapov couldn't remember it, and he felt that his name was right next to his mouth, but he just couldn't call it.

"Alexander! Alexander Popov" The middle-aged man exploded with his home.

"Yes, it's Mr. Alexander Popov. I really didn't expect that I would see you again. I remember you later immigrated to Israel. I didn't expect that you were so old, and you were still a young man at that time." Sharapov sighed.

"Yes, I later built a Gibdz in Haifa with some Russian Jewish immigrants (a communist-colored farm brought by some Israeli immigrants from the Soviet Union), and I lived there." The man replied.

Sharapov sent Alexander Popov into his home. Although he had been working all day, the joy of meeting old friends seemed to bring Sharapov endless energy. He diligently boiled water and made tea for Alexander Popov.

Alexander Popov was also very happy. He looked at Sharapov's home. It was a small apartment with a small area and old furniture. It was obvious that Sharapov's life was not very good.

Sharapov worked hard for a while before preparing a cup of tea for Alexander Popov. The two sat at the shabby dining table and were silent for a moment. Alexander Popov broke the silence first and asked, "Mr. Sharapov, this time I came to visit, I wanted to ask my uncle Nikola about it."

Sharapov was silent for a moment, sorted out his thoughts, and said, "Although I don't know who the murderer is, I'm sure this matter has something to do with Boris Ilyich Pogolovsky of Gorky Automobile Factory."

"Boris Ilyic Pogolovsky? What kind of person is he?" Alexander Popov continued to ask.

"Nothing is great, just a little person who is not worth mentioning." Sharapov said disdainfully.

"I don't understand, what's going on?" Alexander Popov was completely confused. How could a little person who was not worth mentioning kill his powerful uncle?

"At the beginning, my subordinates reported to Mr. Popov that several gangsters secretly resell supplies on the black market without Mr. Popov's permission. Mr. Popov asked several men to teach them a lesson, but they actually beat the people sent by Mr. Popov and hid. This was the case at the beginning." Sharapov finished speaking and took a sip of tea.

"What happened later? What happened later?" Alexander Popov asked anxiously.

"Later, Mr. Popov found several gambling men to coax Boris Ilyich Pogolovsky out and gave him a knife, but he did not kill him. Mr. Popov might still want to teach him a lesson, and he didn't intend to kill him." Sharapov said to Alexander Popov.

"So, it wasn't Boris Ilyich Pogolovsky who did it?" asked Alexander Popov.

"Of course not, that guy has been lying in the hospital. He must not be the one who killed Mr. Popov." Sharapov replied affirmatively.

"Who could it be? Could it be a ghost?" Alexander Popov asked.
Chapter completed!